


Memories of a Burglar

by dustbottle



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bilbo may have PTSD, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mentions of Injuries, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Post-Quest of Erebor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4706873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbottle/pseuds/dustbottle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo would never understand how his life had come to this... In which Bilbo runs, and no one dies. </p><p>Set post-BotFA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories of a Burglar

**Author's Note:**

> Characters not mine (sadly).

He would never understand how his life had come to this, Bilbo thought as he ran tripping and stumbling across the grassy plain and away from the rolling hills of the Shire. His heart was pounding in his throat, eyes watering and lungs burning as he pushed himself to go faster still and faster still. But even as he reached the forest and a bouquet of vivid greens blurred around him, he knew it was no use. There was no escaping this – no escaping himself. The memories would keep on coming, had kept on coming all this time, on and off and on again, and he was still as utterly powerless to stop them as he had always been. Wave after tidal wave of bitter grief came rushing over him, suffocating him, blinding him-

_Thorin, grabbing onto him at the first sign of danger, strong frame subconsciously angling in front of Bilbo and fingers digging painfully into his arm, refusing to let go even long after the threat had subsided-_

This time it had been one of his mother’s best plates slipping from his hands as he was washing up after breakfast. The sound of it shattering into a thousand pieces on the kitchen floor still echoed insistently in his head and grated on his nerves, sending his mind into a tailspin. Kaleidoscopic images of the time he spent with the Company flashed before his eyes, each fragmented memory winking in and out of existence at an alarming speed, when the picture of his dear dwarves feasting in that very kitchen suddenly and insistently pushed to the forefront of his mind. How gleeful and optimistic they had been then, how blissfully unaware of the troubles yet awaiting them. The intensity of the memory constricted his throat and made it near impossible to breathe. After that he just had to escape. He knew rationally that it didn’t make much sense, but the need to get as far away as possible was overwhelming. And really, he shouldn’t be surprised it happened again. Anything could set him off these days -

_Thorin, still deathly pale and sort of faded in the aftermath of the gold-sickness he had eventually managed to fight off, leading his men into battle on that terrible last day, eyes blazing bright with fierce determination-_

He had most certainly forgotten his handkerchief again in his hurry to get out the door, and the fleeting thought startled an almost hysterical laugh from him – the kind of laugh that hurt your throat coming out, the kind of laugh that might really have been more of a sob-

_Thorin, gazing at him with such infinite softness and barely concealed tenderness that it hurt, one large hand resting on Bilbo’s hip as if it was always meant to be there-_

So much had happened since that first fateful day. The hobbit who had left Bag End without his beloved handkerchief so many moons ago had been a completely different hobbit from the one he was now. Bilbo barely recognized himself in the person he had become, in the lingering shadows behind his eyes and the heavy sorrow in his bones-

_Thorin’s deep voice filling his house and lonely heart with a homesickness so alien and yet so achingly familiar it had caused him to throw away the only life he’d ever known and do so willingly-_

From a sated and more-or-less respectable gentlehobbit of the Shire, he had turned into this… this _wild thing_ , brash and alive and unpredictable and nearly bursting at the seams with helpless emotion. He had loved and lost and raged and wept and grieved and buried his heart and he would never be the same again. He had returned to the Shire a thinner and sadder version of himself, had walked through the door of Bag End expecting to finally feel at home again, only to find that he didn’t belong there anymore. In fact, he had soon realized that he belonged exactly nowhere-

_Thorin, mind wholly ensnared by the dragon’s curse, eyes wild and unfocused with maddened rage, snarling and lunging at him when all he had ever wanted to do was help-_

Bilbo was left here now, completely and utterly alone and missing his friends more desperately than he would ever have thought possible. His head and heart alike were still drowning in swirls of chaos and confusion, the peacefulness and tranquillity of the Shire making him feel constantly at odds with everything and everyone. It didn’t help that people had resorted to talking about him instead of to him, gossiping and speculating more wildly every day – Bilbo knew he should try to engage them, sate their curiosity and soothe their worries so they might eventually accept him back in their midst, but he was just too tired to make the effort-

_Fíli and Kíli, blessedly carefree and alive, dancing circles around their uncle and playfully trying to provoke him, taking quick jabs at him with their swords before darting out of reach with laughter in their eyes, and Thorin taking it all in stride and blocking every blow with just the barest hint of a smile gracing his ever-serious features-_

And so every time something happened that made him worse again, something that made him slip up and remember, Bilbo ran. He ran and he ran, tearing away from Bag End like a man possessed, trying and failing to distance himself from the pain of his memories. Trying and failing to forget. The blood roaring in his ears almost managed to drown out the cacophony of voices in his head-

_Thorin, still and silent as he slept, even after months spent on the road, but always easily woken, always alert-_

Almost, but not quite. Bilbo had no strength left to fool himself anymore – couldn’t bring himself to. He could no longer convince himself that he was fine. The simple, terrible truth of it was that he felt utterly, irreparably broken. The mere memory of Thorin’s voice could still bring him to his knees with terrible ease. Bilbo still saw the dwarven King’s face everywhere he turned, recognized the tell-tale catch of his breath and the erratic thudding of his heart before reality caught up with him-

_Thorin, embracing him on the rocky outcrop on the edge of the wilderness, finally truly accepting him, and Bilbo hardly daring to believe it-_

What was worse, so very much worse, Bilbo still smelt the rusty tanginess of the blood spilling relentlessly from Thorin’s countless wounds after the battle, still saw the bruised brokenness of the King’s body as he was laid down in a tent on the edge of the camp-

_Thorin, staring into the fire and quietly smoking his pipe while the others clamoured and made merry around him, looking up at Bilbo with a soft, private smile when he joined him on his perch-_

Thorin was going to die, Bilbo knew then. He was laid down there to die and there was nothing to be done. He could see it in the ever deepening lines on the faces of the dwarven healers and the defeated slump of Balin’s shoulders. He could feel it in the unnatural stillness of the camp after the war and the heavy silence of the dwarves. Thorin would die in a matter of days, hours even, and then he would be gone and Bilbo couldn’t-

_Thorin’s strong hands heavy on Bilbo’s shoulders, his face so very close, a question in his eyes that Bilbo knew the answer to if only he would ask – the guard sounding the alarm and the clarity of the moment broken-_

The King Under The Mountain had asked for him, in the end, but Bilbo hadn’t been able to bear it. He had fled, making a quick and silent escape like the burglar he was hired to be. He couldn’t remember most of the journey back home. Maybe that was for the best-

_Thorin, the mithril coat in his hands and the curse still weighing heavy on his heart, and Bilbo taking it from him and feeling inexplicably like he was losing something he never even had-_

His heart was beating frantically as Bilbo finally skidded to a stop, panting and exhausted. He didn’t recognize his surroundings, but that was good. That was what he wanted, what he needed. He needed to feel on edge somehow, to be unfamiliar and get out of his own head. There was nowhere he could hide anymore, no place left for him to go except away, away, away-

_Thorin, being forced to stand by helplessly as Fíli was struck down, a mixture of grief and crushing guilt contorting his features as he watched his nephew fall-_

After a while his breathing evened out and his racing pulse slowed down. The sun-sprinkled greens and browns of the woods swirled into a pleasantly undefined blur around him. A bird was singing its three-toned song nearby. It made him feel marginally calmer. Not for the first time, Bilbo asked himself what he thought he was doing. He couldn’t keep this up forever. It was impossible to keep running from all of it, he knew that. The alternative, however, was facing his demons head-on and Bilbo wasn’t ready. He might never be ready-

_Thorin-_

Bilbo’s head whipped up at a sound just out of his line of sight. A twig breaking, most likely, or a branch snapping back in place. The sound was barely noticeable, but Bilbo hadn’t spent months in the wild in his company of dwarves without learning to pick up on things. Something was moving in the thick forest nearby, and whatever or whoever they were, they were trying to go unnoticed. Bilbo forced himself to stay still and silent, watchful eyes flitting from tree to tree without pause.

He had almost convinced himself he had imagined the sound when there was another crack, louder this time and coming from behind him. Bilbo’s head swivelled around as he tried to discern the source of the sound. His heart rate picked up again but he paid it no mind, too focused on the silent forest around him. The seeming tranquillity of his surroundings broke apart, shattering into a thousand possible hiding places and spying eyes.

It could have been an animal scurrying through the heavy underbrush of the woods, but Bilbo instinctively knew that wasn’t the case. For a fleeting moment he deeply regretted leaving Sting at home in his rush to get away.

Well, that hardly mattered now, Bilbo told himself firmly. It was done and no amount of wishing otherwise would change it – and wouldn’t his life be easier if he was capable of applying that philosophy to other things in his life as well, a detached part of his mind remarked drily and with absolutely no regard for his current situation. Either way, Bilbo strongly suspected Sting wouldn’t have been much use to him here. He was still no expert fighter by any means, and the limited visibility and lack of open spaces of the forest wouldn’t exactly have helped matters-

A dark shape unexpectedly burst into view a little ways ahead, barely making a sound as it passed through the small clearing and disappeared back into the trees. Startled, Bilbo gasped and stumbled back a few paces. That was definitely not an animal, he thought to himself a little frantically. Nor was it likely to be a hobbit, since hardly anyone ever ventured this far into the woods. However, that still left a wide array of more and (much) less pleasant options. And even with his heart thudding loudly against his ribcage and the sound of his own breathing harsh in his ears, Bilbo failed to quell the irrational hope blossoming in his chest.

Bilbo stayed where he was, half-crouched and hidden in the shadows of one of the nearby oaks. His eyes kept moving around the forest restlessly, ears straining to pick up any sound. For a long time, all he could hear was the soft whisper of the wind and the rustle of leaves over his head. The strange presence didn’t make itself known again. Bilbo had just managed to calm himself down and was contemplating getting up when someone spoke up from directly behind him, nearly making him jump out of his skin.

“Bilbo.”

He hadn’t expected ever to hear that voice again. The sudden rush of emotion nearly brought him to his knees.

“Kíli.”  


* * *

  
Kíli had definitely grown up a lot since they had last seen each other. There was a broadness to his shoulders that had not been there before, as well as new lines to his face and a kind of weary gravitas to his bearing. Yes, much had changed about the youngest member of the Company, but the way his eyes lit up with joy as he pulled Bilbo into a rough embrace was still the same, as was his easy-going nature and infectious laughter-

_Thorin, so deeply focused on the quest that he hardly ever allowed himself any time to wind down and relax, granting Bilbo one of his rare smiles and momentarily looking years younger, the physical likeness to his youngest nephew suddenly and heartbreakingly striking-_

Bilbo closed his eyes briefly, trying to dispel the memory. If Kíli noticed anything amiss, he didn’t show it. Instead he strode alongside the hobbit as they made their way out of the forest and back to the Shire, chattering loudly and excitedly all the while.

“I am _so_ glad to see you again, you have no idea! How long has it _been_? We didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye last time, it was all so chaotic and all of a sudden you were just _gone_ and nobody knew where in the world you went off to-” Bilbo couldn’t suppress a flinch at the casual reminder of that excruciatingly painful decision, but luckily Kíli carried on seemingly without expecting a response, “-anyway, we made it back here now, and you wouldn’t even believe how much faster our journey was this time around- though to be fair we probably owe that largely to Tauriel-”

“Wait a second- Tauriel?” Bilbo interjected, interest piqued at the mention of the familiar name.

“Yeah, she was the one who helped us get through Mirkwood this time around! She had to leave Erebor pretty soon after the battle was over, you know, what with her being the Captain of the Guard and having a duty to her King and all-” Kíli’s voice took on a decidedly dreamy quality for a moment, but he quickly managed to regain his composure, “-and, well, thanks to her we were in and out of the woods in under two weeks this time! Can you believe it? That blasted forest took us _ages_ last time, and then the whole mess with Bombur happened, not to mention those spiders attacking us on top of everything else-”

_Thorin, greatly weakened with the combined effects of dehydration, exhaustion and spider venom, fighting his way out from under the spiders with unshakeable determination, leading his people like the King he was born to be-_

Bilbo blinked heavily, trying to chase away the intruding memory and stay focused on Kíli’s enthusiastic narrative. “-And even though the others acted like they didn’t like it very much, her helping us, I’m sure deep down they really appreciated it. I mean, Tauriel really risked a lot coming to our aid- her King is still not exactly fond of us, and that’s putting it mildly. So they must at least have approved of that, her defying him. Plus, no one in their right mind would want to be in those woods longer than they absolutely have to, right? But, well, you know how they all get around elves-”

“There are others with you?” Bilbo kept his voice level only through an enormous effort of will. He tried to ignore the way his heartbeat picked up and how the rushing of his blood was suddenly loud in his ears.

“Oh! Did I not tell you? We’re on a trade mission heading to the Iron Hills. There’s about ten or eleven of us all together, but Dwalin sent me ahead to scout-”

“You’re on a scouting mission? In the _Shire_?” An incredulous edge crept into Bilbo’s voice despite his best efforts. It didn’t escape his notice that Kíli seemed unable to meet his gaze as he replied, instead studying the tips of his boots intently.

“Yes, well. We figured we could pay you a visit since we hadn’t seen you in ages and it’s pretty much on the way there anyway…”

Kíli’s voice died off on its own, which only served to feed Bilbo’s suspicion that he wasn’t getting the whole story. It seemed an innocent enough explanation, though. Maybe his friend’s sudden awkwardness was attributable to him unwittingly breaking some obscure dwarven rule of conduct- it wouldn’t be the first time. Either way, Bilbo decided to let it slide for now, unwilling to subject Kíli to an interrogation. Smiling gently, he answered, “That’s quite alright, of course. You’re always welcome at Bag End, all of you are. And as a matter of fact I was just going to make myself some tea- will any of you be joining me?”

* * *

  
Bilbo had just finished making tea when the knock on his door came. He had managed to work himself into quite the frenzy in the short time since Kíli had left him to report back to his travel companions, and his “Come in!” came out a lot more breathless than he’d meant. Silently berating himself for his jumpiness, he walked into the hallway to welcome his guests-

_Thorin, striding into Bag End with every bit of majesty he possessed on full display, throwing off his furs and acting like he owned the place, immediately getting on every single one of Bilbo’s nerves but intriguing him endlessly at the same time-_

“…Bilbo?! _Bilbo_ \- hey- Are you quite sure you’re alright?” Kíli sounded alarmed, concern colouring his voice. Bilbo blinked back into the present to find the dwarf looking at him with wide, worried eyes. Judging from his reaction he had been lost in his own head and silently staring off into space for quite some time, something that had been happening with increasing frequency these past few years. As Bilbo struggled to regain control of himself and welcome his friend properly, he realized Kíli had come back to Bag End alone. None of his companions were apparently joining him, and for a brief moment Bilbo felt nothing but vaguely confused – dwarves weren’t exactly known for refusing food when it was offered freely (and on some occasions even when it wasn’t). In the following moment he was hit with a rush of emotion so strong it nearly overwhelmed him, relief and disappointment and heartbreak swirling together and clashing violently. His knees buckled as the sheer force of it threatened to knock him clear off his feet.

“I’m perfectly fine, really,” Bilbo tried to assure his friend, working very hard to keep his voice steady and unwavering even through his inner turmoil, “I suppose I just got lost in thought for a moment, that’s all.” It sounded plausible enough to his own ears, if admittedly a little feeble, but he still had to persuade himself to meet Kíli’s gaze. When finally he did, the dwarf stayed silent and just gazed back at him calmly, and through the dull aching of his battered heart, Bilbo managed a small smile.

What on earth is the matter with you, Bilbo Baggins, the hobbit scolded himself sternly. You should be nothing but immensely grateful that even one of them is still alive; you should be thanking every deity who’ll listen to you for the fact that Kíli, brave and foolish and loyal Kíli hasn’t yet been taken from this world – what wouldn’t you have given for that to be true only mere hours ago? You can’t go around expecting more than that – this is already more of a miracle than you deserve.

For his part, Kíli did not look convinced by Bilbo’s explanation. He just stood silently, lips pursed as he regarded the hobbit standing in front of him. The hobbit tried valiantly not to squirm under his scrutiny but still found himself wringing his hands, a nervous fluttering somewhere around his midriff announcing itself rather insistently. “Tea is ready, let me just-” he started fussily, only to fall silent at a minute shake of Kíli’s head. The dwarf still hadn’t said a word, just watched him with an intensity that was frankly disconcerting. He had never looked more serious or more distinctly regal than he did in that moment, the likeness to his uncle suddenly so striking it brought tears to Bilbo’s eyes. “I’m not-” he tried lamely, and he himself wasn’t even sure where he meant to go with that. His shoulders sagged as a familiar sense of defeat crept up on him like a fog. He couldn’t find the words.

He didn’t even notice Kíli stepping towards him until he was already being enveloped in a hug. To be surrounded by solid dwarf again after being deprived of any kind of physical affection for so long was almost surreal, even more so because it was Kíli embracing him – Kíli, who was more grown up than Bilbo had believed he would ever get the chance to become, healthy and breathing and vibrantly _alive_. But come to think of that-

“Kíli?” He started, strangely hesitant about broaching the subject even while he felt the familiar stirrings of a never-quite-extinguished curiosity start low in his gut, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I can’t- I mean I… I don’t- how are you here right now?” Feeling Kíli shift slightly to look at him, obviously confused by the question, Bilbo hurried to explain further, “When I- when I left Erebor I couldn’t… you were unconscious and had been for days. _Days_ , Kíli! Oin didn’t think you would ever wake up again… and he said that even if you did-” Bilbo found himself unable to continue as his voice broke on something like a sob – and wasn’t that distinctly unsurprising, he thought bitterly as his mounting frustration battled with the piercing echo of a well-remembered grief.

The arms around his body tightened momentarily. When Kíli finally spoke his voice was soft and his tone careful, obviously trying for light but tinged with a worry that was not very well hidden, “Yes, I was injured pretty badly in the battle and so was my brother, but it takes more than a couple of Orcs to slay a son of Durin, Bilbo- I thought you of all people would have a little more faith in that.” It felt vaguely like Kíli was trying to convey more than what he was actually telling him, but Bilbo couldn’t focus on anything past the mention of his brother.

“Fíli- Is he alive as well? Why is he not with you?” When no answer was immediately forthcoming, Bilbo forced himself to look up and meet the dwarf’s eyes. The pain that was evident on Kíli’s face made his heart stop in his chest. For a terrible moment he believed the worst had happened still.  
“He-” the dwarf started to answer him, visibly distraught but trying very hard to collect himself, “He- yes, Bilbo, my brother is alive, but his injuries were many. I’m sorry to say that while he is slowly recovering, he will never regain full health.” When Bilbo still looked confused, he forced himself to go on, “One of the blows he received damaged his spine. It is unlikely he will ever walk again.”

“Oh, _Kíli_ -” Bilbo breathed, horrified, his heart breaking for the oldest prince, and Kíli’s face crumpled. Suddenly they were both holding onto each other equally, grief and comfort shared as the tears came and would not stop. Bilbo cried like he hadn’t in years, the emotional hurricane of the previous hours catching up with him and overpowering him completely, very nearly drowning him where he stood. Kíli wept for his brother, for the life he had lost in the battle and would never get back, speaking through his tears as he told Bilbo about Fíli’s frustration and his exhaustion and the depth of his grief, as well as his endless optimism and the way he refused to let his injury define him – and, selfish though he feared it might make him, he cried for himself, for the loss of his brother at his side always and for the forced separation that grew more painful every day.

For the longest time they stood together like this, clinging to each other, the sorely needed familiarity of their friendship soothing and comforting them. Bilbo didn’t want to let go and from the way Kíli held onto him, he got the distinct impression that the dwarf was similarly inclined. However, after a while Bilbo couldn’t stop the familiar and ever-present fog of anxiety from creeping back in any longer. It had been his constant companion for years on end, after all, and his bone-weary mind succumbed to it now with barely any struggle. Within the minute his thoughts were racing out of control again, falling back into the familiar destructive patterns worn-out by years of constant use. He knew there was no point in fighting it.

One name in particular fought itself unbidden to the front of his mind time and time again, as it had done ever since his return to Bag End. His name. He hadn’t uttered it aloud since the day of the battle, couldn’t bring himself to let it slip past his lips, but it was always there, a steady thrum inside his head, its presence as constant and undeniable as Bilbo’s own heartbeat, a song and a prayer and a curse all at once-

_Thorin please Thorin be here please I can’t Thorin please don’t be dead Thorin don’t do this Thorin don’t leave me here alone Thorin please-_

He didn’t realize he had spoken some of it out loud until a new voice answered him, a voice so overwhelmingly familiar his body responded without any kind of conscious decision on his part.

“I’m here.”

And so he was.

* * *

   
Afterwards, Bilbo could never quite remember what had happened in those first few moments after his mind finally went blissfully quiet. All he recalled was feeling himself sway dangerously as he temporarily lost all solid ground under his feet, the sensation of all of his blood seemingly evaporating all at once, and Kíli holding him up. But it was coupled somehow with a sense of homecoming, a sense of belonging so overwhelming it overshadowed all else.

Finally turning around and looking at Thorin was simultaneously the easiest and the hardest thing Bilbo had ever had and would ever have to do. Thorin looked different, older and more worn than he had before, his hair now streaked with liberal amounts of silver. His clothes were different too, every piece gorgeously tailored and elaborately made, perfectly suited for the king he was. Thorin bore himself with the kind of regal grace that looked effortless, probably really was at this point. But Bilbo didn’t see any of that, or if he did, he didn’t care and wouldn’t remember it later. All he saw was the way Thorin smiled when he looked at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling and his face lighting up like the sun. It was the single most beautiful thing Bilbo had ever seen.

* * *

  
At some point during the day Kíli had excused himself in an uncharacteristic bout of perceptiveness, and Thorin and Bilbo found themselves utterly alone. It was strange, being together again after so many years spent apart, and neither one of them seemed to know exactly how to act around the other. In an extremely hobbitish effort to try and relieve the building tension, Bilbo made them tea and they retired to the drawing room, sitting so close together it would be quite easy to just reach out and touch. They didn’t, though, of course they didn’t – that wasn’t how things were for either of them or ever would be. The weight of everything that happened and _didn’t_ happen between them so many years ago was almost a physical presence in the room as they sat side by side and drank their tea. Bilbo couldn’t speak for Thorin, but he felt stifled by it.

Bilbo tried to restrain himself, really he did, but the urge to touch was slowly driving him mad – he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop himself much longer. After a couple of moments of heated but entirely silent inner debate, he came to a decision. It was simply the most effective way of making sure that it was not a dream or a mirage this time, the hobbit told himself decisively as he reached out. Yavanna knows it had happened before. He still had a hard time believing Thorin was truly sitting here next to him, and that was really all there was to it.

There was no other reason for the way his heart sang when he finally felt the warmth of Thorin’s skin and the steady thrum of his pulse. Yes, there might have been something between them once upon a time, Bilbo could admit to that – some barely defined undercurrent to their ever-volatile relationship, something not-quite real and almost great, but he was quite sure it had not survived the battle or the interlaying years for either of them. And if a tiny unrelenting voice in the back of his mind waxed poetic about the mere feel of Thorin’s strong arm flexing under his own much smaller hand, well, there was no one here to judge him, and Bilbo firmly ignored it like the sensible hobbit he was.

It was a while before Bilbo braved looking up at the dwarf. Their eyes met at last, and the look Thorin gave him made his breath catch in his throat. There was an intensely open vulnerability to the dwarven king’s features that the hobbit had never seen from him before. As their gazes locked, Thorin’s expression shifted to one of quiet wonder mixed with something broken, something bordering on desperation. For the longest time, all Bilbo could do was stare back, dumbstruck and uncomprehending in the face of such powerful emotion. But as understanding finally dawned, Bilbo felt a part of himself shift into place. Feeling heady and just the tiniest bit brave, he smiled softly before moving to grasp the dwarf’s large hand in both of his.

He could hear with perfect clarity the hitch of Thorin’s breath, the tiny broken sound he made as Bilbo went to hold his hand. It was very nearly a sob, dry and utterly wrecked, and Bilbo chanced another glance up at the dwarf. The sight that met him when he did made his heart speed up in his chest, a sudden flare of heat surging through him and burning him alive. Thorin’s eyes were large and dark, their usual piercing blue almost completely extinguished by the pitch black of his pupils, and Bilbo had to swallow against the sudden dryness of his throat. He couldn’t help the frantic jitter of his thoughts as the implications of that gaze flashed through him. Something all-consuming and larger-than-life finally unfurled deep in his gut, something warm and living and familiar, and he welcomed it back.

At that moment Thorin closed the remaining distance between them in a rush of motion, leaning into Bilbo’s space and dragging him closer with one hand grasping his shoulder. For his part Bilbo went gladly and willingly, reaching out to the dwarf with hands and heart alike. Their lips finally met. And everything else faded away.

Thorin made a noise that was somewhere between a whimper and a sob, large hands coming up to frame Bilbo’s face. The hobbit responded in kind, tangling his hands in the dwarf’s hair and tugging gently as he tried to angle himself even closer. The answering moan reverberated through him, making Bilbo’s heart swell impossibly and his fluttering pulse sing in his veins. The hobbit sighed into the kiss, at once incredulous and jubilant and more content than he had been in years. He delved deeper into the kiss with almost feral urgency, feeling more than hearing Thorin breathe what may have been his name or nothing at all against his lips – feeling himself smile again after so long and not being able to fight it.

They may have spent hours like this, finally truly and completely together, breathing each other in and not letting go. Even after they stopped kissing the breath out of each other long enough to take notice of anything but each other they still refused to part, opting to stay wrapped up in their current positions and share the same space instead. At some point Thorin idly started trailing kisses from the corner of Bilbo’s mouth to the softness of his cheeks and the dimple in his chin, lingering on the plump curve of his lip and the pointed tips of his ears. Bilbo just groaned weakly in response and tilted back his head, baring his throat to Thorin and granting him easier access for his explorations. The dwarf took what he was given with eager devotion, coarse beard grazing the sensitive skin of Bilbo’s neck as his hot mouth closed over his pulse point. Bilbo barely bit back a moan, hot tendrils of desire shooting through him with increasing urgency. He was completely wrapped up in the sudden onslaught of sensation, fingers digging into the rough fabric of Thorin’s overshirt as he tried to keep himself grounded.

However much he tried, though, Bilbo couldn’t keep control of his rapidly overheating mind, couldn’t stop his thoughts from running haywire inside his head. It was impossible that this was happening at all, some distant treacherous part of Bilbo’s mind insistently reminded him, unthinkable that it was him Thorin was worshipping like this, especially after everything that happened before.–

Impossible, yet somehow improbably, amazingly true. Thorin was here and he was real and warm and solidly _alive_. What was more, the dwarf king seemed to want and need exactly what Bilbo had secretly desired since the very beginning of all of this, and for once in his life he wasn’t going to second guess it. Just as he reached that conclusion Thorin moved in close again, overloading his senses with his presence and his warmth and his smell, a heady mix of smoke and iron and pinewood and earth, and every single one of Bilbo’s thought processes short circuited. All the hobbit could do was hold on as he was set ablaze.  


* * *

  
The time for talking came later. They eventually managed to break apart, though still feeling rather reluctant to move away from each other. Still clasping Thorin’s warm hand with both of his, Bilbo leaned in and closed his eyes as he touched their foreheads together. It was a gesture he had witnessed countless times before and one he had come to associate with closeness and comfort and family, all of which he had missed dearly over the past years. Being as close as he was, Thorin’s quick intake of breath at the contact was impossible to miss.

Bilbo opened his eyes to find the dwarf looking back at him, eyes wide and clear and impossibly blue. In their depths there was surprise and quiet wonder and a sharp, glittering joy, but beneath it all lurked a dark shadow of uncertainty that broke Bilbo’s heart. “What is it?” the hobbit asked, ignoring the hoarseness of his own voice. Unable to resist the urge, he reached up to tangle one of his hands in the dwarf’s long hair. Thorin released a long breath, shaking his head mutely and averting his eyes. “Hey, I’m here,” Bilbo said softly, “Right here with you, Thorin-”

At the sound of his name, Thorin’s eyes flashed up to his, and the naked vulnerability in them made the words die in Bilbo’s throat. He could so easily get lost in those eyes, he thought to himself almost absentmindedly, and frankly he wouldn’t even mind. The pure and unbridled devotion burning bright and clear in Thorin’s gaze simply took his breath away. It would have frightened him if he hadn’t recognized its mirror image within himself.

“ _Bilbo-”_ the dwarf breathed out, his voice barely above a whisper and sounding utterly broken. He didn’t say anything more after that, hands coming up to cradle Bilbo’s face instead and dark blue eyes drinking him in as if he couldn’t believe he was real.

“Tell me,” Bilbo coaxed gently, threading his hand through the dwarf’s long mane in a comforting gesture left over from minding his numerous little cousins when he was younger, “Anything, Thorin. I’m not going anywhere, I promise you.”

“I didn’t expect- I never thought-” Thorin released a harsh breath, evidently frustrated with himself at his apparent lack of eloquence, “I can’t-” he choked out after a while, self-loathing clear and heavy in his voice as he struggled to find the words to explain, “I don’t deserve-” he broke off again and hung his head, utterly miserable and avoiding eye contact as his next words came out in a mumble that was barely audible, “I don’t deserve you.”

And Bilbo’s battered heart broke all over again.

Feeling for all the world like it was simultaneously the most terrifying and most important thing he had ever had to do, Bilbo tipped up Thorin’s chin and forced the dwarf to look at him. Thorin met his gaze only very reluctantly, the clear blue of his eyes clouded over by shame and self-disgust. Reflected back at Bilbo was more pain and sorrow than any one person should ever have to bear, and something spiky and panicky and hot constricted painfully in his chest at the sight. “You daft dwarf,” Bilbo said, and for all his urgency his tone was almost fond, “don’t you know? Can’t you see I have forgiven you already?”

“I failed you,” Thorin whispered, not seeming to have heard him, eyes closing like it physically hurt him to utter the words and low voice breaking as he forced himself to continue, “I threatened to _kill_ you-”

“Yes, you did,” Bilbo agreed solemnly, softly, his voice calm and wearily regretful, his heart twisting sharply at Thorin’s pained flinch. Before the other could move away or say anything else, he went on, “You also saved my life, Thorin, more times and in more ways than you could possibly imagine, and you should finally stop punishing yourself.”

He didn’t look away from the dwarf’s blue eyes as he spoke his next words, forcing every bit of steely determination he owned into strengthening his voice and heart alike, “I love you like no other, Thorin Oakenshield, and there’s nothing left to forgive.”

The effect of his words was instantaneous and almost physical. Thorin reared back as if struck, eyes wide and mouth opening in shock. He was silent for the longest time, and Bilbo just looked at him and waited, at once feeling terrified and elated, at the same time vulnerable and electrified and strong. The tiny but persistent voice in his head was exultant, jubilant and sparkling and very nearly bursting with joy as the truth of his words sank in for both of them, at last, _at last_. Now all that was left to do was wait, let fate decide and the chips fall where they may.

When Thorin finally responded, Bilbo almost missed it. “You-” the dwarf breathed out, his voice betraying his utter disbelief and also the tiniest, most tentative sliver of hope. The unspoken question was clear from his tone, and somehow it was more than enough. Feeling the last piece of his heart slot back into place, Bilbo smiled and reached out again.

Thorin went willingly, falling into the embrace like a drowning man finally saved. A strangled noise wrenched its way from his throat involuntarily as he hid his face against Bilbo’s shoulder, a hoarse sound that was somewhere between a sob and a laugh. Though Thorin couldn’t speak, the shaking of his shoulders and the harshness of his breaths told Bilbo all he needed to know and more. So through it all the hobbit sat and held onto his dwarf, sheltering and comforting him as best he could, stroking his hair and humming softly under his breath until the sobs eventually subsided. And if he shed a few quiet tears of his own along the way, well, no one needed to know.

After what might have been minutes or hours or days, Thorin sat up and straightened his shoulders. Though his eyes were red-rimmed and his clothes rumpled and tear tracks glittered on his cheeks, he suddenly looked every bit as regal as he had the first time he had stepped foot inside Bag End so long ago. The only notable difference was the fierce adoration that now burned hot in his gaze, and Bilbo was immeasurably, unendingly, infinitely glad for it.

“Bilbo,” Thorin began, his low voice steady and serious, the undercurrent of uncertainty still present but hardly noticeable now, “Though I strongly suspect you already know, I must express to you the depth of my affection.” His voice wavered then, ever so slightly, and Thorin took a deep breath as if steeling himself, nervous tension evident in the line of his shoulders and the stiffness of his spine. Bilbo itched to reach out but stopped himself, instinctively knowing that he couldn’t be the one to take control this time. The aborted movement caught Thorin’s attention, though, and his ice blue eyes flashed up to meet Bilbo’s. Their gaze locked, and some of the tightness with which the dwarf held himself seemed to simply melt away. When he continued speaking, barely suppressed emotion was clear in his face and voice alike, “I love you with all my heart, Bilbo Baggins, and it is my wish to court you, if you would have me.”

And Bilbo smiled, and nodded, and kissed him.

* * *

  
That wasn’t the end of it, of course. Neither of them had gone into this new aspect of their relationship expecting it to be easy, and it wasn’t. They had to talk through all of it, had to sift through layers upon layers of lies and hurt and betrayal and fight their way through prejudice and misunderstandings and broken promises. They had to break down walls that were built up so high not even the sun could get in anymore. It was hard work, and sometimes there was no reward to enjoy. Oftentimes it just felt like a struggle that would never end, a race with no finish line in sight.

But through it all, through all the anger and heartbreak and pain, they kept going. They were both stubborn and proud, and neither of them were without fault, but they were willing. Willing to work for it and bleed for it. Bleed for _them_. Willing to dig through the rubble, to try and salvage what they could and throw away the rest. Willing to rebuild their relationship from the ground up, with solid foundations and sturdy materials, strong enough to withstand even time itself. For them, there really was no other choice. They had tried to live without each other and found it to be impossible. Now they had found each other again, and they refused to let go.

There were good times too, golden moments and glittering hours and delicate threads of silken conversation, and they became more abundant with every passing day. If Bilbo was honest with himself, as he had promised both himself and Thorin always to be while Thorin had solemnly sworn the same to him, he was the happiest he had ever been in his life. Even while fighting tooth and nail with Thorin and not gaining an inch, even while painstakingly reliving his most painful memories, even while getting horribly, hopelessly lost in the pouring rain on the road back to Erebor, there was a part of him that was absurdly, inappropriately happy. He recognized the same unmoving joy in Thorin as well, and it gave him hope. Together they learnt to forgive and to forget, to laugh and cry together and then move on – most importantly, they slowly learnt to love each other in a way that was good and honest and strong.

And Bilbo was no longer alone. He never would be again.

Whenever things got too hard for a while, whenever the voices in his head got loud and ruthless and insistent, whenever the past seemed to close in on him and his mind clouded with chaos, whenever Thorin retreated back into himself and was impossible to reach, Bilbo only had to think of his friends – of his family. In those dark moments, he thought back to the way Kíli’s eyes had lit up when he returned to Bag End that first day to find his Uncle smiling softly and braiding his bead into Bilbo’s curls. The way Dwalin, battle-hardened warrior that he may be, had tried and failed to suppress his wolfish grin when the hobbit ran out of his door and straight into his arms. The way Fíli had stood waiting for them on the grand stairs of Erebor when they finally reached the Lonely Mountain, held up by Oín and paler and thinner than he’d been before, but laughing as his brother’s enthusiastic greeting almost sent them both to the ground, blonde hair almost golden in the light of the watery sun. Or the way Lady Dís had welcomed them upon their return, smacking Thorin firmly upside the head before turning her attention to Bilbo and pulling him into a fierce embrace, her dark hair brushing his face and her whispered “thank you for bringing my brother back to me” much too heartfelt to bear thinking about for too long. The way Bofur was always willing to share his beloved pipe weed with him, and the way Ori had shone with unmasked pride when showing Bilbo around the magnificent Library of Erebor.

The way Thorin looked at him sometimes, as if Bilbo was worth more to him than all the treasures of the world combined. The way his insides seemed to turn to dust whenever Thorin smiled. The way his heart sang when they touched, went into raptures when they kissed. The way the King Under The Mountain got distracted whenever Bilbo’s courting bead and marriage bead clacked together. The way they never seemed to tire of each other.

The way Bilbo loved Thorin, so completely and wholeheartedly, so irrevocably and unendingly, and the way he was loved in return.

 

 

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally done! I can't believe how long this took me to write, and though I enjoyed working on it I'm happy to have finally finished it. Talk about a labour of love. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I really hope you enjoyed!
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://www.dustbottle.tumblr.com), come and say hi!


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